Trigger by Kendra_B (Interpals)

Stop screaming to your god, 

You’ll be screaming in vain, 

He has nothing to do with the pain, 

and the violence, 

that was force fed through your lips, 

and ripped through your eyelids 



The love that was grown has been demolished 

through vicious grumbles, 

and backwards glares. 

Because the man that soldier just shot through the head 

Screamed 

For Allah just moments before shot dead. 

Hot and red, 

His blood on the floor was no more than a stain 

of cheap, 

red, 

wine. 

A pain to clean up, 

but no more than a liquid that leaves a bitter taste to the tongue. 



Because he was no brother, 

a lover of another god, 

Another color of skin 

that has never been associated with 

clean. 

So unlike the pristine white 

of you and I. 



You are not entirely to blame. 

This is how you were raised. 

Rewind to age five, 

your mind still pliable to build 

monuments of understanding, 

or mountains of compassion. 



But it was around this age that Daddy taught you 

that if a man is the color of the dirt beneath your feet, 

then that is how 

you will treat him. 



It was around this age that Mother told you 

that if a woman keeps her body sacred 

in swaths 

of black, 

if a woman holds a sickle and star, 

not a cross, 

to her chest, 

then she does not belong 

in Western Civilization 

because she is a backwards threat, 

A danger to the modern woman. 



It was around this age, 

that any time you would turn on the TV 

you would see 

the bloody depictions 

of broken bodies 

and burning buildings 

and whether it be fact, 

or fiction, 

it did not matter. 

Because this was a time for nationalism. 

Your young mind, 

unable of rationalism 

only saw 

the clench of Daddy’s jaw, 

Heard the gasp from Mother’s lips, 

and all you knew, 

was fear. 



You were raised to hate. 

It was a fate inescapable. 

How could you have known any better, 

when all you have ever known is that 

white 

is right 

that your god is more powerful than any other 

and it is a sin to think otherwise. 



But the man that soldier just shot through the head 

Screamed 

for Allah just moments before shot dead. 

Hot and red 

his blood hit the floor. 

But the blood of another god. 

So why, 

should it matter? 



But if there is to be only one god, 

Who is to say that your god is not my god? 

That my god is not your god? 

That God is not Allah, 

And Allah is not God 

One is not each other and each other is not one. 



And the blood on the floor is the blood of your own brother, 

A lover of another word, 

but belief all the same. 



Who is say, 

that we made a mistake? 

That in the wake of our false power 

and fake pride, 

we focused our time on the wrong ideas. 



That we are just victims of pride and revenge gone wild, 

and the blood on the floor 

is the blood of a child of your own god. 



And yet, 

we find ourselves flinching on airplanes, 

crossing to other sides of the street, 

Spitting, 

throwing fits, 

blowing ideas out of proportion. 



But we blindly validate these actions because 



Don’t you remember? 

It was the Muslims who collapsed us to fractions of our previous glory. 



Because it was the Muslims 

who murdered our brave men, 

who fight 

for our rights 

But quietly 

out of sight, 

someone forgot to mention the seven civilian women caught in an 

“unfortunate US bombing”. 

Someone forgot to mention 

that we took the lives 

of seven wives 

and seven mothers 

just to get a reaction. 



Because clearly, 

all Muslims plan 

to bomb our country 

and burn our stripes 



Except for the 99.7% that don’t. 



Was it worth those odds? 



When I grow up 

and have a child of five, 

I will sit her down 

and shape her pliable mind. 



I will tell her that if a man is the color 

of the dirt beneath her feet 

then that is how 

she will treat him. 



With honor and respect. 

Because the dirt beneath your feet is the foundation 

of the food you eat 

It is what holds you straight 

when you feel as if 

you could fall to pieces. 



I will tell her that a woman dressed in black 

with a sickle and star against her chest 

does not belong 

in Western Civilization 

Because we are a threat 

to her sacred body 

and sacred skin 

hidden so carefully from our Western sins. 



And I will let her mold her own young mind into 

monuments of understand 

and mountains of compassion 



In hopes to combat the irrational 

and absurd idea 

that the color of her skin 

or the word she calls her god 

makes her any better 

than anyone else. 



And maybe someday, 

through the eyes of a child, 

we may resist the all too human desire 

to hate. 

And coexist as one in the same. 

Maybe someday we may purge the urge of our pride and revenge gone wild 

but what do I know? 

these are only the thoughts of a child perhaps to optimistic 

for her own good. 



You know, 

I’ve heard that change comes from the voice of one 



but I have been choking on the bile of the words 

I never said. 



but I am fed up 

with keeping my lips shut 

I know there are people willing to listen. 



I know there are others whose hearts bleed 

and eyes glisten. 



I’ve heard that change comes 

from the voice of one. 



So believe in me.